The waitress came up, said ‘’kyew’, placed an old-fashioned three-tier china cakestand on their table and departed. Barnaby closed his eyes, realised at once that he could hardly stay that way for the duration of his visit and opened them again, swearing he wouldn’t look.
Cakes. Great fat profiteroles oozing cream. Slices of neat chocolate, alternately white and dark, held together with the merest scattering of liqueur-soaked ratafia crumbs. Cauliflowers of green marzipan, the curd made from ground almonds bound with honey and rose water. Squares of rich shortbread studded with almonds and smothered with fudge. Millefeuilles layered with freshly puréed raspberries instead of jam, and crème pâtissière. Lemon and orange jumbles drenched in powdered sugar. Vanilla meringues supreme, moist little curls of chestnut purée peeping out. Frangipanes.
‘Yum, yum,’ said Sergeant Troy. He helped himself to what looked like a small raft of shiny pastry coated with coffee icing and supporting two large swirls of soft, toffee nougat. ‘Do you want some more coffee, chief?’
‘Um ...’ Barnaby was studying the top plate, the smallest ring on this ziggurat of divine temptation. He figured things should be less fattening on this level. For a start they had to be ... well ... smaller. The thing to do was not look down.
Troy assumed the ‘um’ meant yes, and poured. Barnaby helped himself to two thinnish circles of biscuit sandwiched together by a fawn-coloured paste.
‘That doesn’t look very interesting.’
‘It’s interesting enough for me,’ said the chief inspector, biting into it. Oh, God - pure butter. And pure praline. Ah well - too late to put it back. He could always cut down on lunch. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t known exactly what he was about when he came in.
‘Had a look at that address yet, chief?’ Barnaby unfolded the tight little square and passed it over. Troy read out, ‘Thirty-two Cavendish Buildings, South West One. That’s Victoria, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Probably a mansion block.’
‘So if he lived there in 1982, and moved to Midsomer Worthy in 1983, when did he live in Kent?’
‘Search me.’
‘At least we know that Grace died before February 1982.’
‘Not necessarily. People have made wills before now cutting out their nearest and dearest. Quick—’ Barnaby picked up the cakestand. ‘Those two women are moving. Put this on their table.’
‘But what if we want—’
‘We won’t’.
‘I might.’
‘Just do as you’re told.’
Grinning, Troy removed the cakestand and returned to find Barnaby chasing a final crumb around his plate with a broad finger and muttering to himself.
‘What was that, sir?’
‘I was thinking about the money. It’s a hell of a lot. When you add on the house - what would that be worth? One fifty?’
‘Minimum. Tray posh out there. And only half an hour from the West End.’
‘So we’re talking about nearly a million pounds.’ Barnaby found it rather touching that a man who longed to write and couldn’t and, if the paintings in his sitting room were anything to go by, had absolutely no appreciation of art, should leave his money in such a generous manner.
‘We are. Lucky devil. Well,’ added the sergeant, for he was a fair man, ‘up to a point’.
‘Hadleigh was obviously much higher in the Civil Service than we pictured him.’
‘Not necessarily. Could’ve been lucky with investments. If you’re prepared to take a few risks you can really divvy up.’ Troy spoke with the authority of a British Gas and Telecom shareholder.
At this point their waitress came back.
‘More coffee, gentlemen?’
‘No,’ replied Barnaby, quickly. ‘Thank you.’ He described what they had eaten and she hauled up a little pad dangling from a string tied around her belt.
‘That’s one biscuit du beurre de praline plus,’ smiling at Troy, ‘a deux jeunes filles sur la bateau.’
‘What’s that then when it’s at home?’ asked the sergeant, smiling broadly.
‘Two young girls on a raft.’
‘My lucky day then.’
‘Seven pounds twenty.’ She tore off a slip and the chief inspector reached for his wallet. ‘Pay at the till please.’
She cleared the table, stacked everything on a tray, lifted it as if it weighed no more than a feather and swanned off. Barnaby watched her go. She had lovely hair, a long shining fall almost to her waist. He thought of Cully, wondered how she was faring and if it would enter her mind to send a postcard before the tour ended. Probably not.
He reached out to pick up the bill, which his sergeant was regarding with some incredulity.
‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’
‘We could have had double sausage, egg and chips, double Bakewell, soup and tea in the canteen for this.’
‘Ah,’ said Barnaby, getting into his coat. ‘But could you have had it in French?’
They queued up at the till, an elaborate, highly wrought metal contraption that went ping! when the total jumped up in old-fashioned, strictly non-digital style. Troy was still looking deeply disconcerted.
‘It’s on the house, Gavin.’
‘Very nice of you, chief.’
‘Not at all. I shall use our eight quid drinks allowance.’
‘From now on,’ said little Bor, ‘I want all my friends to call me “Rebel”.’
‘You ain’t got no friends.’
‘Yes I have.’ Though Boreham sounded certain his expression was somewhat confused. ‘I just don’t know who they are yet.’
‘You’re thick as a nun’s whatsit,’ said Denzil.
At the moment of speaking he seemed to be the holder of Brian’s perpetually usurped authority. The group was hot-seating the notion of power versus popularity and, unsurprisingly, popularity came nowhere.
‘What you have to do,’ Collar said, illustrating their number-one choice, ‘is get your retaliation in first.’
‘Speed plus surprise and no holes barred,’ said Tom, making a swift karate chop. ‘But especially speed.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Denzil. ‘Never fuck anybody over tomorrow you can fuck over today.’
‘Then,’ said Edie, tossing back her wild mane of tangerine hair, ‘you got respect.’
Brian shivered and felt deliciously afraid at the thought of all that proximate, barbarian energy on the loose - swift and irrational, roaring round the precinct of a Saturday night smashing bottles, spraying cars, sinking its steel-capped boots into soft, unprotected flesh. And all the while he was lying, snug and safe, tucked up in the warm at home.
‘Hating people,’ Denzil was saying, with the smile that never reached his mouth, ‘is good for you. Gives you a purpose in life.’
‘Yeah,’ said Collar. ‘I could hate for centuries, me.’
Brian knew that, in his role as teacher, he had an ethical imperative to protest against these attitudes of destructive amorality, to offer a little homily along uplifting lines. You only hurt yourselves by this attitude. (Patently untrue.) What would happen if we did just as we liked? (It’d be a damn sight more interesting world, that’s what.) He said nothing.
‘Wonder what it’s like to kill somebody.’
‘I been near that. Very near.’
‘And me.’ Little Bor dodged a swipe from the back of Denzil’s hand.
‘My dad’s brother did a job on a bookie that wouldn’t pay out. He’s inside now. Detained during Her Majesty’s pleasure. Dead good that is.’ Collar explained why it was dead good.
‘You’re talking absolute nonsense.’ Finally, Brian was moved to protest. ‘You don’t even get to meet the Queen. Now - we absolutely must get on. There’s less than ten minutes left.’
‘They got anywhere with your murder, Brian?’ asked Edie.